


Delicate Wandering Hands

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Flirting, Getting Together, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, M/M, Teasing, bold jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: Geralt doesn't care about his travel companions shameless provocations.If Jaskier feels the need to flaunt himself, flirt with everyone who's path they happen to cross, then it is none of Geralt's business and he will not stop him.Will not think about what the bard is doing when he disappears behind locked doors with yet another pretty stranger.He doesn't care. Really, he definitely does not care.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 300





	1. Harmless Fun

Geralt is sat in his usual spot, tucked into the corner of the local inn, in another, identical little town, just big enough to be map worthy, just big enough to warrant patrons wealthy enough for Jaskier to bring in some coin, but not big enough for anything else.

And not out of the way enough to have work for him. They won’t be staying long, just the one night. He would leave Jaskier in the inn to see what he can scavenge from this lot’s pockets while Geralt enjoyed a night in a real bed, maybe paying to have someone to enjoy it with, assuming he had the gold for it. Then in the morning they would be on their way, quick, easy, nothing to worry about.

That had been the plan.

Till he discovered this hell hole was just on the side of too small to have a whorehouse.

So instead he was tucked into the corner of the inn, slowly nursing his drink.

Sitting. Watching. – no not watching. Really, he wasn’t, wasn’t watching the bard.

Wasn’t watching as the man, just starting to strum on his instrument situates himself near the centre of the room, leaning casually on the edge of an empty table, only just beginning to draw in the other patrons’ attention.

Wasn’t watching as skilled fingers began their usual delicate dance, not imagining those hands dancing elsewhere – Fuck.

He drains his ale, motions for another before the innkeeper becomes distracted watching the performance.

The performance Geralt’s not watching.

He’s not.

It’s not his fault Jaskier has situated himself so annoyingly central that it would take Geralt active effort not to see him at all.

Jaskier starts strong, the quiet strumming just a warmup, enough to make sure everyone was aware of his presence, begin to peak their interests. Just as he wanted.

Once he’s sure they know he’s there, then he can start. Hook them in, start loud and recognisable, Strumming the instrument with well earned confidence.

Nearby, Geralt lets out a muffled groan, head dropping low and eyes diverting to the table before him when the opening notes of ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ ring out loud and clear through the tavern. Hearing the exited cheer that followed.

It was going to be a long night.

It works exactly as Jaskier had hoped it would, quickly drawing the majority of eyes in the room to him, the familiarity of the song helping to ease tension, relax the neigh sayers who may have otherwise protested the evenings entertainment.

Once he has their eyes on him it’s a matter of keeping them, draw them in and hook them tight, good thing he’s had plenty of practice doing both.

Geralt can still see the bard, out the corner of his eye. See the bard… peacocking, straightening from where he was lent with an overexaggerated sway of the hips, a cheeky grin flashing out across the room. 

He can see when Jaskier kicks out a chair, lifting a long leg onto the chair, apparently deciding this was a suitable way to position himself, so… exposed, body on display – fuck. 

Geralt drops his eyes to his fresh drink, mercifully delivered in time by the innkeeper.

He’s not watching.

Not thinking about Jaskier’s strong calves, toned from weeks of walking- _fuck._

He drains half the ale, trying to spot the innkeeper to hail for another one, sadly having already lost the woman to the crowd.

The gathering crowd, he realises, gut dropping. The bard’s plan had worked, customers beginning to scoot closer, shift round to get a good view of the singing man. A few have begun to sing along, no doubt encouraged by Jaskier’s rousing cry of “everybody!” before he had started the final chorus.

Oh, this would be a long long night.

Jaskier finishes up the first song on a high, he can let it calm for a bit now, get into his set, play a few of the less well known songs, perhaps take the chance to get acquainted with a few of the most interested – or most wealthy – looking of the audience, before ramping it back up at the end of course. 

He sends out another bright and welcoming smile, aimed just above the crowd’s heads, carefully placed so that everyone felt as though it was just for them, when really it was for everyone and no one all at once.

Geralt watches Jaskier play for a while, can’t help it, the man managing to maintain a fair crowd, even with his lesser known works. It’s… impressive. He will give him that, impressive the way the bard manages to control a crowd, play to so many people at once, balancing his attentions just right to keep them all interested.

He doesn’t think about the fact Jaskier hasn’t played to him, hasn’t looked at him, all evening.

Why would he, Jaskier knows he won’t get Geralt’s coin, he has no reason to shower the Witcher in the… attention he is now handing out so willingly to everyone else. Although… maybe some more than others, Geralt notes, maybe Jaskier isn’t completely balancing his attention, something- or someone, managing to draw in more than their fair share.

It takes Jaskier a few songs to notice the man. It’s surprising really, as the moment he does he can’t take his eyes off the stranger. The man’s tall, well dressed in clothes clearly tailored for him. He’s slender but muscular, with dirty blond hair slicked cleanly back out of his bright eyes.

And above all, beautiful.

Jaskier sucks in a breath, tries not to get distracted, tries not to get drawn in by those stunning blue eyes, twinkling at him over the edge of the man’s drink. 

It’s a losing battle, one the bards not sure he truly wants to win. But then why shouldn’t he be allowed to … indulge a little? If the man wants to play… Jaskier returns the look, offers a tilt of the head, a suggestive eyebrow raise, enough to say, ‘yes, I see you, and yes, I’m interested.’

Geralt snorts, watching Jaskier showing off, getting distracted. Give it a few moments and he’s sure the bard will move on, swing round and find another cute face to admire.

The man isn’t even that… what, attractive? Interesting? He fails to see why Jaskier seems so interested in him. Not that he cares if the bard is interested in some… wealthy asshole. It’s a passing fancy, it always is with Jaskier.

He watchers as the man shoots Jaskier a coy, sharp smile, and Jaskier winks, _winks._ Back. 

Something burns, deep in Geralt’s gut. Twisting. He swallows. He’s not sure why he cares.

He doesn’t care.

He’s not watching.

Geralt drops his eyes to the table before him, gulping down more ale. He does not care.

Jaskier doesn’t let himself get completely distracted, he’s a professional, he won’t completely abandon his work just for a pretty face. But he keeps his gaze on the man, making sure to catch his eye every so often. Make sure he stays interested.

And he does, oh he clearly does, the man sitting back, drink all but forgotten, staring at Jaskier with a hungry look in his eye. He’s cocky, sure of himself, smirking at the bard whenever their eyes meet.

Dammit, Jaskier is a professional. He will not let himself be completely distracted.

Maybe he speeds up slightly, maybe he skips a few songs, shortening his set. Maybe he drops in a few more… bawdy songs than usual. So what, it has nothing to do with the devilishly handsome man watching his every move.

It’s not like the rest of the audience doesn’t enjoy it as well, plenty of other drunk customer’s cheering and singing along. Plenty of other’s aiming wolf whistles and encouraging smiles his way.

He begins to hype the room up, trying to build the energy, bring them to a strong and memorable ending. One that earns him enough coin to offset him taking off for the rest of the evening.

He dances through the room, lute swinging, voice strong and clear, determinedly keeping the rest of the bawdy and excited audience interested and enthusiastic.

He swings past the man’s table, its time to secure his interest, win this game. He takes a moment, staring back into those piercing blue eyes. Sings directly to the man, mouth curling in the cheekiest of smiles.

He licks his lips, makes sure the man sees, tongue running slowly and deliberately over plump lips, catching slightly on sharp teeth.

Watches as the man tips his head back, exposing a long and beautiful neck that Jaskier just wants to bite. Something he’s sure he will get the chance to do, once he finishes his set.

Satisfied that an understanding has been reached he spins back round to face the rest of the room. finish the song, collect his coin, and let the real evening entertainment begin.

But then oh, _oh._ The sharp slap to his behind catches him off guard, the man proving much more bold than he had assumed, Jaskier stumbling slightly forward, voice hitching. Clearly his message had been received loud and clear. He regains himself, dancing away, needing to focus now on ending the song, unable to resist a final look back at the man, still watching him with a self-satisfied smirk.

Geralt is halfway out of his seat the moment the man touched the bard, a growl growing in his chest. He calms himself; this is not the first time Jaskier has been... touched while performing, he knows the bard can handle himself. Waits for Jaskier to spin round, deliver some cutting remark, perhaps a blow if he was really worked up. At that point Geralt would intervene. Throw the bard over his shoulder, drag him out of the way before things could get too nasty, make sure he calmed down and didn’t cost them their room along with their coin.

He watches, watches as instead Jaskier simply spins away, shooting back a smile at the man.

His stomach curdles. He watches the man, staring so openly at Jaskier, ~~thinks about snapping the stranger’s delicate neck.~~ No.

If Jaskier is fine with the touch, then he has no reason to care.

No reason to get involved, no reason to go over there, hurt that man – He sighs, heavily, drowns the rest of his drink. Tries to ignore the way it sours in his stomach.

He looks back up at the wave of applause, Jaskier’s finished with his set, now spinning through the room, collecting coin wherever he can find it, looking particularly pleased with himself.

For the first time that evening Jaskier looks back, their eyes briefly meeting, Jaskier flashes in a blinding smile, weaving his way over to Geralt, to drop a pleasantly full money bag onto the table before him.

“Look after that for me, won’t you?” he asks, before flicking a look behind him and leaning down to say in a mock whisper, “I have… other matters to attend to tonight, and wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.”

Geralt grunts and just like that the bard is gone, quickly weaving back through the crowd, making a beeline towards the stranger.

The man stands as he approaches, moving towards the stairs, not even bothering to check that Jaskier follows. He doesn’t need to, Jaskier following behind, a skip in his step, clearly eager for whatever lay ahead.

Geralt watches them go, watches them slip away, upstairs, together.

He finds himself biting the inside of his cheek, stomach twisted in knots.

He glares at the moneybag before him. Not thinking about what it’s owner is getting up to. Not thinking about Jaskier and that man, caught in embrace, clever finger’s running through blond hair-

He bites down the growl.

This is foolish. It shouldn’t matter what the bard choses to get up to in his time off.

It doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t care.

Maybe if he repeats it enough times it will become true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -waves hand- look i just need more jealous Geralt ok? This should be updated decently regularly unless life throws any hardballs at me, which... given the state of the world let's face it, v possibly could happen.


	2. Growing tensions

Jaskier doesn’t return that evening.

Geralt doesn’t think about it, turning in early, head heavy with ale, grateful for the ease at which he manages to find sleep.

Jaskier is back the next morning, bright and early, ready to go, as though nothing even happened. From his view nothing out of the ordinary had.

Geralt would have been able to convince himself of the same if it wasn’t for the way his stomach curdled at the sickly-sweet smell now clinging to Jaskier’s cloths.

Geralt doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t think about it.

Just like he doesn’t think about the flash of heat that flairs up inside him every time he catches site of a rather large bite mark peaking out from under the bard’s collar.

He’s happy when it fades, gone in little over a week. Not that he lets himself acknowledge that.

His… discomfort seems to fade along with the bruise, Geralt happy to move on and put the entire… experience behind them.

They pass through towns, looking for work, food, money.

Jaskier finds others with whom to salt his needs, unsurprising, Geralt had never known him to be one to keep it in his pants.

And each time it happens Geralt feels his heart twitch, clenching ever so slightly.

He doesn’t address it, its easy enough to ignore. None of Jaskier’s advances bringing forth the same sickening pain as before.

He doesn’t think about why that is, doesn’t catalogue the fact that Jaskier never seems to smile as brightly, seem as enthralled, with any of them as he did with the stranger in the inn all those weeks ago.

Until he does. Until it happens again.

She couldn’t be more different from the stranger, a petite little thing, well rounded with soft features and such a delicate face. Shy, blushing at the slightest attention, lacking any of the cocky self-assured nature that had drawn Jaskier to the previous stranger.

She worked in the inn, Jaskier first laying eyes on her when she came round to deliver them breakfast early in the morning. He took one look at her flushed and cheery face, and knew he wanted to bed her.

Jaskier’s desire was impossible to miss, the flush of his cheeks after the young maiden left, the stupid, ~~love~~ lust-sick way he stared after her.

Geralt felt his heart twisting again. Tightly this time, not just a one-off jolt that was quick to fade.

He tried to shake it off, focus on the work he had been able to find. He finds himself wanting to drag the bard with him, keep him close, out of the inn, out of trouble. But he knows it would be too dangerous, knows bringing Jaskier along would cause more trouble than it would avert.

Still, it’s with a heavy heart that he sets out, leaving the bard curled up in their room, engrossed in writing. Tries not to wonder if Jaskier will still be there when he returns, or if he will have found… somewhere else to spend the evening.

If he tries to rush the contract, power through making possibly foolish moves rather than let patience do the work, so that they could leave that evening, rather than spend a night, well, that is no ones business but his own.

Not that it works. Geralt finds himself stumbling back into the inn well past nightfall, blood staining his hair, muscles already sore, heart beating out of his chest and head pounding with adrenaline, in no fine state to do anything at all.

No state to deal with what he finds when he opens their door.

Jaskier and the maiden, mercifully still clothed, though clearly on their way not to be, judging from her opened bodice, and his half-unbuttoned trousers. Caught in embrace, Jaskier’s hand on her amble bosom, mouths pressed together in a surprisingly slow and gentle kiss.

He just stands there. Suddenly cold, fighting down the sick sore lump currently clawing its way up his throat. Fighting the urge to march over there, rip them apart, do something-

It’s the woman who notices him, jumping back with a shriek, hands raising to cover herself. Not that he had been looking.

Jaskier laughs in surprise, helps her readjust her dress, standing to follow when, flushed and flustered she rushes from the room.

Geralt doesn’t hear what Jaskier says as he passes, unable to make out the words over the sound of his own heartbeat, ringing loud and angry in his ears. 

His hand itches, wanting to reach out, to grab. Demand… something, he doesn’t know what. answers maybe?

His hand stays at his side, fingers flexing, aching. He lets the bard go. Doesn’t think about the fact Jaskier hadn’t even bothered to do up his own trousers before leaving.

He feels numb, heavy, limbs slow to respond as he methodically cleans himself off, scrubbing the blood from his skin, focusing on the way it disperses into the water, not letting himself think about anything else.

The bed smells like them, both of them, Jaskier’s earthy pinewood, calming and familiar, mixed with something bright, overwhelmingly floral. It burns his nose. He flips the pillow over, for all the good it does him, lying in the cold bed, unable to sleep, mind racing, focused on everything and nothing all at once.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t address it. He wants to this time, the words heavy, stuck at the back of his throat, always seeming like they might just spill free if he isn’t careful.

He doesn’t though, he holds himself back, doesn’t know what he would say if he did. Jaskier did nothing wrong, has no reason to contain himself, hold back from his enjoyment.

Just as Geralt has no reason for the sour twisting sickness that bubbles up within him every time he thinks about it.

It’s harder to brush off this time, harder to put aside and forget. He finds his stomach curdling every time Jaskier lets himself get distracted, every smile, every smirk, sent out at someone other than Geralt.

It doesn’t matter if anything happens, if the bard disappears, trailing upstairs, or merely leaves it at a smirk, every time he has to witness it, he feels his heart clench, mouth filling with bile. 

So he does what he can to avoid watching, leaving the bard behind as often as possible. Spending evenings out, drinking, fucking. Whatever he can do to take his mind off thinking about whatever Jaskier is getting up to.

When they are together Geralt finds himself on edge, worked up over nothing, snapping at the bard, nerves wound tight, ready to fight over anything.

Jaskier responds in full, giving as good as he gets, but it is clear it is wearing on him, the bard’s retorts slowly growing more irritated, cutting, and at times cruel. It is wearing on them both, Geralt knows it can’t continue, one way or another it will need to come to an end.

It’s the third one that breaks him.

It’s a man again, large, hands rough and calloused from a hard life. Long dark hair tied back, out of his face, a face covered by a thick dark beard, with dark, piercing eyes.

Geralt doesn’t see the appeal.

Jaskier clearly does, eyeing the man from across the bar, desire painted across his face. Interested, eager. Jaskier initiates, raising a coy eyebrow over his drink.

The man snorts. Shakes his head, looks away. Geralt hopes that will be the last of it, Jaskier will leave it alone, accept the defeat.

But of course, he doesn’t. The bard seems almost more excited by the rejection, throwing himself into the task of seducing this unknown figure.

Geralt doesn’t know why he stays when Jaskier starts his performance, the bard doesn’t even try to hide it this time, try to play out to the crowd. He has his target clearly set, no need for pretences.

And Geralt doesn’t need to see it. He could leave, he could excuse himself, retire to their room for the evening.

But he doesn’t. He stays. He watches. As Jaskier does everything in his power to be as enticing as possible. Eyelids fluttering, lips bitten, red and plump, hips swaying in a way Geralt swears should be illegal.

Geralt wonders if his heart is going to explode. going to spasm out of his chest and kill him. Then Jaskier stops with the exaggerated swaying to roll his hips and Geralt starts to wonder if he has already died and gone to hell.

It’s working, he can see it working, see the stranger’s interest slowly growing, disinterested frown turning to a smile as he watches Jaskier’s performance. Jaskier sees it too, an excited thrill running up his spine, five more minutes and he will get this man to break.

Geralt wants to punch the man in the face.

If Jaskier knows he gives no indication, eyes rarely so much as falling on the Witcher all night. 

He has a task to complete, a final roll of the hips, a determined look as finishes up a song, and finally, finally, he wins.

The man chuckles, cocks his head towards the backroom, raises an eyebrow. Jaskier beams. The man moves, Jaskier moves.

Geralt moves. It’s not a conscious decision, feet moving almost of their own accord, carrying him after the man. After Jaskier.

No plan, no idea what he’s doing.

Just a sinking sour sickness, slowly burning a hole through his stomach. 


	3. third times a charm

Geralt finds them easily enough. Catches the door to the back-alley swinging shut, banging closed behind Jaskier. It gives him pause, the closed door. He stands before it, heat feeling as though it may beat out of his chest.

He should turn around. Leave. He knows it. He tries to calm, count the heartbeats. Closes his eyes to centre himself.

Gods was that a mistake. He can hear them, hear the rustling of cloth, grunts and groans, the heavy breathing… and then Jaskier _whimpers_ , and his restrain breaks. Swings the door open, grabs hold of Jaskier, yanking him back, away from his conquest.

Jaskier squawks, swings a hand in defence, managing to catch Geralt square in the jaw. Geralt lets out a muffled curse, thrown off guard by the hit.

“Fuck- Geralt?!” Jaskier’s voice spikes, Geralt isn’t sure if its in fear or anger, possibly both. He growls, grabs Jaskier, tosses him over his shoulder, turning, ready to leave-

“Hey, fucker!” a fist smashes into the side of his face, surprise more than pain sending him stumbling, dropping Jaskier with an undignified grunt. Turns to face Jaskier’s _lovely_ choice of company, this time catching the fist long before it connects.

He twists it, turning the arm past a comfortable point. The man shrieks, falls to his knees, sobs out a, “oh fuck oh gods I’m sorry.”

Geralt bends down, bringing them face to face, and growls again, squeezing the hand until he hears something pop. The man goes white. Geralt lets it drop, lets the man scramble back, clutching his arm, crying in pain.

Geralt allows himself a self-satisfied snarl, chuckling at the mans startled cry, throwing his good arm up to defend himself. Geralt smiles, letting sharp canines shine, satisfied that he’s done with the man.

He turns, blood rushing, pumped full of adrenaline, ready to grab Jaskier, drag him off, do… something. Except… Jaskier is gone. Fuck.

He shoves through the door, back into the tavern. Takes a moment to centre himself, breathe deep. Fuck.

Gods. Fuck. He had fucked up, and now Jaskier was gone.

He stumbles his way back to the room they had booked, the walk giving him the time to calm down further, anger seeping out, leaving him cold and numb. a familiar sickness settling into his stomach.

He wonders if Jaskier will forgive him. He wonders if he will get the chance to find out.

He numbly pushes open the door to the room, not daring to let himself hope Jaskier will be in there. Part of him worrying Jaskier will be, there in the room, packing, ready to leave him for good.

Jaskier is there. As punctuated by the book that sales across the room, hitting him square in the face as he walks in, “Jaskier-“

“What the FUCK Geralt!”

“Jask-” He manages to catch the next book, setting it aside. He holds up his hands, placating, Jaskier is still here, not packing, not leaving, ~~yet~~. He could work with this, somehow. “Jaskier-”

“What the fuck! What the hell where you thinking- doing- Gods, Geralt. What. The. Fuck.”

“I-I was” Geralt stops short, runs a hand over his face, muffling a tired sigh. Fuck. He’s not good at this- the… talking, explaining. He eyes Jaskier across the room. The bard is clearly fuming, face red, body jittery with pent up energy and rage.

Jaskier throws his arms open, raises an eyebrow and draws out a mocking and angry, “well?”

“I’m…sorry.” It slips out, he grimaces, lip curling up. He wants to… explain, give Jaskier some excuse or reason, but he doesn’t know the reason himself. “I’m sorry. I…” He sighs, “fuck.”

“You’re sorry.” Jaskier’s voice has a bite to it, one that makes Geralt want to crawl into some small hole somewhere and die.

“…yes.” 

Jaskier snorts. Rolls his eyes, “Gods,” he shakes his head, “what the hell where you thinking?”

Geralt shifts, uncomfortable, wincing, tries desperately to come up with something to say. Jaskier watches him, clearly waiting. He manages a weak, “I… don’t know.”

“You don’t- _Geralt._ Geralt. You can’t just- burst in like that- break some poor man’s hand- I didn’t even have the time to get his name Geralt!”

Geralt frowns, unsure why that should matter, manages another, “I’m sorry Jaskier.” Before Jaskier cuts him off.

“And you break his fucking hand! So there goes any chance of anything happening there!”

Geralt’s frown deepens, tongue sitting heavy in his mouth, no apology for that forthcoming. a fact Jaskier doesn’t miss, the bard snorting, calling him out on it, snapping out a “really? No apology for that?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, letting the silence sit, heavy in between them.

Jaskier seems to deflate within it, anger seeping out, seemingly giving way to exhausted irritation and sorrow. Now he is the one to run a tired hand down his face, offer an annoyed sigh, taking a moment to stare back at Geralt as he composed himself before he continues, “Look, Geralt. I know we have been… at each other’s throats as of late, and I know you’re- I know I can be an irritation, and I know I haven’t exactly been helping with that lately.”

He pauses, draws in a sharp breath, lips curling over sharp and pointed teeth.

“But I have been trying. And maybe if you would just let me work out my frustrations-”

Geralt snorts at that, unable to stop himself, ‘work out frustrations,’ Gods, if only Jaskier knew, every time he did, he only stoked Geralt’s own frustrations.

Jaskier scowls at that, “some of us do like to indulge from time to time in the finer things in life-”

Geralt snorts again, unable to stop the unamused chuckle, “ _finer_ things, really.”

Jaskier practically snarls, lips curling, “just because men may not be to your taste-”

“Oh, men can be to my taste Jaskier, that is not the issue here!” He stops, absorbs what he just said, sees Jaskier’s shocked face, regret settling in practically instantly, “… fuck.” he hopes Jaskier will ignore it, let it go, get distracted by his rage and not make them talk about it.

Jaskier manages a confused, “what?’ clearly still processing.

Geralt takes the opportunity, tries to steer them back, away from the topic of his… interests, to the matter at hand, “it’s not that it was a man, Gods, I don’t care about that, it’s just…” He trails off, realising he still doesn’t know how to end that sentence. Tries again, lets the words spill free of their own accord, hoping that would help somehow, “I just... I don’t like… it.”

He didn’t think Jaskier could look more confused. “you don’t like it.”

Geralt, grumbles, knowing he needs to continue. Oh to hell with it, he was this far in, how much more damage could he really do in just letting the truth spill out, Jaskier already had reason enough to leave, might as well raze what little was left to the ground. “I don’t like seeing you – flirt, flutter your eyes and disappear upstairs with some random conquest.”

Jaskier’s lip curls, ready to bite out some sharp and angry response, but Geralt finds himself continuing before Jaskier gets the chance, the words spilling freely from his lips, “I thought I could ignore it, but… it’s not just that I don’t like it, it- it hurts, it- my chest, my heart, it… seeing you, thinking about you, with others, Jaskier, it… hurts me.”

The spillage of words stops, silence falling back between them. Geralt breaks it with another sigh, lets his eyes drop closed, shakes his head. Lets out another, desperate, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier hums, sucks in a breath, considering. “It hurts.”

“Yes.”

“So much so that you broke a man’s hand over it.”

“I broke his arm, and probably dislocated his shoulder.”

Jaskier hums again, head cocking to the side, teasing through the information, building blocks slowly slotting into place in his mind. “Yes. Well. Yes. I’d… rather prefer it if that could be avoided in the future.”

Geralt nods, still trying to avoid Jaskier’s gaze, it’s a more than fair request, one he would… find a way to manage. Somehow. Gods, maybe it would just be easier if one of them left, remove the possibility of him snapping again, hurting someone else or worse…

“-so we will just have to find a way to make sure it doesn’t need to happen ever again.”

Geralt frowns, finally looking up, to see Jaskier raise an eyebrow, a cheeky smile painted on his lips. Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows, in a way Geralt assumes is supposed to be… enticing. 

He freezes, mind going blank. Stutters out a “I- what?”

Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows again, definitely trying to be enticing.

“…what.”

Jaskier groans, head thrown back in an annoyed whine, “it’s- I’m being seductive you ass.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No. I’ve seen you being seductive, and it’s not… that.”

“shhh, I’m seducing you.”

“… you’re wiggling like a new-born faun, no one would be seduced by this.”

Geralt ducks in time to miss the third book, wonders if he should be concerned by the apparent amount of heavy reading material Jaskier seemingly just has lying around the place.

At that Jaskier seems to give up on the conversation entirely, crossing the room to collapse onto one of the small beds. He throws an arm over his face, clearly pretending to be upset.

Geralt groans, rubs his eyes, groans again. This evening was not going anything like expected.

Then Jaskier spreads his legs, open wide, and rolls his hips, in a move that could very possibly just be the bard trying to get more comfortable, but also functions to once again entirely shut down Geralt’s brain.

And then he does it again.

Geralt returns to wondering if he had somehow died already, now unsure if this particular location is heaven or hell. 

Jaskier somehow manages to kick a leg out wider, shifting his hips in the process. He runs the hand previously pressed over his face down his chest, making a show of smoothing out any creases in the doublet, fingers lingering just a moment too long above his waist band.

Geralt shuts his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Manages an irritated, “Jaskier.”

Jaskier hums in response, low, and annoyingly enticing.

“This is a bad idea.”

Geralt had thought Jaskier had looked annoyed before, yet somehow even his angry shouting had nothing on the piercing glare he was now sending the Witcher’s way. “A bad- Gods- _Geralt._ I thought this was what you wanted, you can’t just…” he flails a hand in the air, searching for the words, “ruin my only chances of getting laid in this town, practically confess your love-”

“I didn’t-”

“And then refuse to take me to bed!”

“I didn’t- confess my love, Jaskier.”

The bard waves a lazy hand, “Semantics, I’ve learnt to read between the lines.”

Geralt stares. Love. Fuck, that was a strong word. He didn’t- He pauses, mind turning, a slow horror setting in that Jaskier’s assumption might be right. Love.

Fuck.

He needs to put a stop to this, leave before things go any further. Before a night of passion ends in messy heartbreak the next time Jaskier finds someone to fling himself at. He’s not sure his heart could take it. He levels Jaskier a firm stare, “this would be a bad idea.”

Jaskier pouts, draws out a needy, “Geeeralt.”

The Witcher just frowns, shakes his head. No. this is a bad idea.

Jaskier huffs, understandably irritated, “why- Geralt, why not?” 

“Jaskier… I’m not… I’m sorry, I interrupted your… fun. I’ll learn to manage it, get my…” He almost growls, knows the word he wants, _emotions,_ but saying it feels like it will make it real, stick a label on the clawing sickness settled in his gut. A label he wasn’t supposed to have. But he did. Fuck he did. “get myself under control. But if we were to do… this. Anything. Then I don’t think I’d be able to. I wouldn’t be able to hold back the next time someone caught your eye… and we both know I can do worse to a man than a broken arm.”

“… you self suffering idiot.”

Of all the responses Jaskier could have given… that decidedly wasn’t one Geralt had been expecting. Jaskier lobs the pillow at him, that somehow feels more expected. He catches it easily, hands now full, allowing the second pillow to whack him directly in the face. Geralt found himself increasingly unsure why, exactly, he likes the bard so much.

Jaskier out of things to throw, continues talking instead, “apparently I didn’t make it clear enough that the aim was to insure you don’t need to break anyone’s arm ever again. I’m not- asking you for a- a one-night romp around in the sheets you idiot! I’m suggesting…” Jaskier cuts himself off, hands flailing as though to fill in the missing words.

He huffs, shoots Geralt a look as though to say, ‘you know,’ before realising Geralt in fact, definitely does not know. Jaskier sighs, right. Dense idiot does in fact need everything spelled out for him. Gods. “Geralt. I’m suggesting a…” Gods he’s going to have to say it, “relationship. I’m suggesting you get your head out of your ass and get over here and ravish me so well that I never feel the need to be ravished by anyone else.”

Jaskier thinks he may have broken the Witcher, the man staring at him, mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out, pillow still clutched in his hands.

Geralt blinks. He feels as though his brain just entirely shut down. He panics. He throws the pillow. Watches as it hits Jaskier square in the face, the bard not even trying to deflect it.

Jaskier splutters at him, knocking the offending object aside “what the fuck Geralt?’

“You want a relationship.”

“Yep.”

“With me.”

Jaskier offers a cheeky grin, another god-awful eyebrow wiggle as he answers brightly, “yep!”

Geralt half regrets throwing the pillow, hands now fidgety and nervous, with nothing to fill them. “I think… I would like that very much.”

Jaskier collapses back onto the bed, throws the arm back over his face with a groan. Mumbles out a, “thank fuck.” before peering at Geralt from under his arm, a concerningly calculated look on his face, “Now I believe there was talk of ravishing?”

Geralt snorts, lets himself be drawn in, walking over to the bed, head cocked, and eyebrow raised as he stares down at Jaskier, “Is that so? And here I thought you just said you want more out of this than just a quick roll around in the sheets”

Jaskier jeers, “come on, you gotta at least let me test out the new merchandise.” The body roll he gives at that somehow manages to be completely and utterly unsexy.

Geralt groans, wondering what he’s gotten himself into, but tips forward, drawing Jaskier into a kiss regardless. He hums, “I’m sure something can be arranged.”

Somehow the beaming smile Jaskier gives makes everything worth it, Geralt’s heart fucking swells, warmth radiating out from his chest, soothing over the sinking pit in his stomach, heart unclenching completely for the first time in weeks.

He lets Jaskier drag him down, into another kiss, lets wandering hands play across his chest, only just daring to venture further downwards.

Lets himself get lost in Jaskier’s sent, the soft touch of his fingertips, the steady – but rapidly quickening- beat of the man’s heart.

He doesn’t doubt that it would still take time, time before he fully settled, fully trusted Jaskier’s word as good and true, stopped flinching at every smile sent out to a roaring crowd. But now, with Jaskier in his arms, it suddenly seemed so much more possible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one feels like it got away from me somewhat... tho hopefully is still a somewhat satisfying ending.

**Author's Note:**

> -waves hand- look i just need more jealous Geralt ok? This should be updated decently regularly unless life throws any hardballs at me, which... given the state of the world let's face it, v possibly could happen.


End file.
